Breathe Your Last
by TheLadyLepida
Summary: Latharna, a Celtic woman living in eleventh-century Scotland, is a social outcast, reviled as a witch. Fully prepared to live out her life alone, Latharna is content tending to her herb garden and nurturing her budding talent in magic until a dangerous creature begins to stalk her during the night. Godric/OFC. Pre-series. DISCONTINUED. See profile.
1. Prologue: Anathema

**Title: **Breathe Your Last

**Author: **_TheLadyLepida_

**Rating: **_M _for _Mature_. This story contains explicit and dark content, so detailed warnings will be given before the start of each chapter due to potential triggers. Please heed the warnings before you read.

**Full Summary: **Latharna, a Celtic woman living in eleventh-century Scotland, is a social outcast, reviled as a witch. Fully prepared to live out her life alone, Latharna is content with tending to her herb garden and nurturing her budding talent in magic until a mysterious and dangerous creature begins to stalk her during the night. [Godric/OFC] [Pre-series]

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**Chapter: **1/1 – Prologue

**A/N: **I'm new to _True Blood_, and am currently on season four. I breezed through the first three seasons in two weeks, and was itching write something almost immediately. I've always been fascinated with history (thus the reason I enjoyed Eric's flashback) and the current country I'm interested in is Scotland, so that's where much of this story will take place. I have another modern-day Godric story in mind that will be an AU, so this one will be shorter and stick firmly to canon. I'm publishing this story first since the prologue came so quickly to me, but I might publish the first chapter of my other Godric story when I finish it before I start on the next chapter for this story. Enjoy, and don't be afraid to point out any historical inaccuracies I might have made. :)

**Warning(s) for this chapter: **Mild language, some graphic imagery, and vaguely implied sexual abuse.

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**Disclaimer****: **_True Blood_/The Sookie Stackhouse series belong to HBO and Charlaine Harris.

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**Breathe Your Last**

-TheLadyLepida-

* * *

"_O little one,_

_My little one,_

_Come with me, _

_Your life is done._

.

_Forget the future,_

_Forget your past,_

_Life is over:_

_Breathe your last."_

- **Clive Barker, **Abarat

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Prologue:

-_**Anathema**_-

* * *

"_The basis of all true cosmic horror is violation of the order of nature, and the profoundest violations are always the least concrete and describable."_

- **H.P. Lovecraft, **Selected Letters III: 1929 – 1931 

"_Listen to them – children of the night. What music they make."_

- **Bram Stoker, **Dracula

* * *

ROME:

-44 B.C.-

**ALL **was silent in the house of Gaius Flavius Corvinus when the young slave, in the darkest time of the night, slipped from the slave quarters and slunk through the house like a ghost, plucking up small, but valuable trinkets like grapes and putting them in the sack she carried, with the intentions to sell them to make way for her and her lover back home, away from the filth and debauchery of Rome. Home… Leda could barely remember home, could barely remember her mother, the name she was given at birth, taken away by the Romans. They had taken more as well, ripping her from her mother's arms and thrusting her into those of another, her master Gaius, who took her to his bed as soon as she was old enough (in his mind), losing her virginity and innocence all at once in one night of terror on a sea of pain and sobs. Leda was amazed that she hadn't yet drowned herself with all the tears she cried over the years. No matter; she was leaving all those memories behind, and no one would be able to stop her. It would be easy to slip out unnoticed: Gaius often disappeared at the latest hours of the night, and the men who guarded the house vigorously with him, so sure that the slaves would be soundly asleep with no thoughts of escape. Fools.

Determined to steal at least one more trinket, Leda made her way over to the _lararium_, tucked away in a dark corner of the _atrium_, the shrine that housed the _Lare_, the household gods that watched over the family Flavia. Smiling spitefully, Leda seized one of the two bronze statues and put it in her sack. She decided, at that moment, not to sell it but keep it as a trophy, as a remainder of her triumph over her years of suffering. She did not fear sacrilege. Why should she? She had adhered to the Roman way, much reluctantly, as her very life had depended on it, but she did not, and would not bend the knee to Roman gods. They held no sway over her. Leda was just turning away when the moonlight that spilled through the _compluvium_, the square opening in the ceiling of the _atrium_, slanted just so that Leda was able to make out the _lararium's _wall-painting. She was immediately terrified by what she saw.

The image was a far cry from the usual paintings of the _Lare _that were composed: the gods flanking an important or accomplished ancestor, clutching important symbols that represented prosperity for the family. Instead, the painting depicted the gods _fleeing _from the ancestor, fear apparent on their faces, a monstrous man covered in blood, staining his white toga and dripping from-_O Gods!_-the fangs that peeked out from the corners of his mouth. He clutched the symbols of prosperity, as if he had wrenched them straight from the gods' hands. At his feet, lay another man with his throat torn open, blood spilling copious streams that seemed to drip off the painting and onto the shelf of the shrine, but Leda was sure that it was just the moonlight playing tricks on her. She couldn't, however, help imaging that she could see the blood pooling and seeping beneath the plinth of the lone bronze statue and she had to force herself to turn away, shuddering. Romans. What savages they were. Leda was thankful that she had finally found the opportunity and the courage to leave. Who knew what other horrors lurked beneath the cold, marble-hard face of Rome?

The moonlight shifted again, illuminating the _impluvium _in pale, eerie light, giving the wine-dark water a sleek sheen. Leda barely noticed as she made her way towards the entrance of the house, the _vestibule_. She suddenly stopped, finally aware of the disgusting and rank smell that permeated the _atrium_. She didn't want to turn and explore the reasoning behind the smell, but she did so anyway, chills running up her spine like the nauseating caress of her master's cold, ringed fingers. Leda took a step towards the lit _impluvium_, where the smell originated, and nearly fell as she slid on slick, wet liquid beneath her feet. Looking down, beneath the moonlight, she saw that it was blood. Involuntarily, her eyes followed the trail that led into a dark corner. As if the Roman gods saw it a fit moment to punish her for her sacrilege, the moonlight slanted and revealed the source of the blood.

It was a wonder she didn't scream.

A disgusting pile of gore and blood, half-baked organs and scraps of flesh and hair and clothing, spattered the floor and the walls almost up to the ceiling. The sack slipped from her hand as Leda doubled over to vomit. She didn't notice the shadows on the wall shuddering as a dark figure uncoiled himself from the darkness. Urine made a trail down her legs, sharp and pungent like her fear, and Leda was readying herself to flee until the moonlight, another cruel trick of the gods it could be said, caught a gleam amidst the pile of gore. Curiosity overwhelming self-preservation, Leda slowly made her way over, trembling. She should have fled instead.

Gagging, Leda dug through the gore, and found a ring in the palm of her hand. Her master's favorite ring. Wiping away the blood on her woolen tunic, Leda saw that the ring was a solid gold band, heavy, with an intricate setting clutching a large stone in its grasp. The stone was of deepest blue, almost black, with no reflection, the color of a starless night. Thumbing the stone, Leda found her joy, her fortune, at the price of her master's brutal death. She smiled, trembling, frightened, but pleased. It would fetch a pretty price; perhaps pay both her and Castor's passage back to Britannia. The rest of the trinkets would be enough to get them started, pay for a nice house and an acre of land, perhaps. So lost in her thoughts, Leda did not notice the figure approaching her from behind. He stood directly behind her as she was lost another moment in her dreams, waiting.

Happily unaware of her doom, the hapless slave turned and stared Death in the face.

* * *

When he was done feeding, Godric let the slave girl's body fall to the marble floor with a careless thump, landing right next to the edge of the _impluvium_. With a nudge of his foot, the corpse rolled into the pool, her body sinking slighting before bobbing back up on the surface. Her serene face and the wet tendrils of her hair spreading out on the water made him think of the water spirits of his native land that he spent hours trying to spot by peering into every river and puddle, waiting. He pushed the thought away quickly. He could never return home. There was _no_ home. His village had been put to the torch after the men, including his father, were slaughtered in battle, the women raped and the children bound in chains. Marched into Rome, Godric was, like the rest of his people, bought and sold like cattle. Godric was torn from his mother's grasp and hauled off to the highest bidder, Gaius Flavius Corvinus, his master and maker.

No. His maker was no more, dead by his hand. Godric smiled. He was free, free at last. Free and alive, unlike the stupid girl who should have just kept on walking out the door. Then again, perhaps it was better she hadn't walked outside. Rome during the nighttime was a completely different world from the Rome of the day, of the living. The living had no business outside their homes at night.

Godric picked up the ring that Leda had dropped, and flicked it into the _impluvium_ with a snort. Humans and their fascination with pretty, glittering trinkets. Roman _patricians_ were worse, content to drown in their finery. Godric's people, having been hardened, practical warriors, had no use or taste for such fripperies for anything other than trophies taken off their enemies in battle. But he was no longer one of them, no longer mortal. He was a creature of the night, born of death, and despised by the living. It was survival or death. And that's how it would always be. Even worse: now that he had killed one of his own, his own maker of all things, he would be hunted down, captured, and meet the true death. "To all the hells with that," he muttered in his native language, relishing the words on his tongue, no longer being required to speak the accursed Latin.

Godric's gaze roamed around the _atrium _thoughtfully as he was thinking of what his next course of action should be, landing on the sack of valuables that the slave girl had dropped. When he spilled them out onto the floor, Godric was surprised to find one of the bronze _Lare _statues amongst them. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, smiling.

"Your gods did not see fit to protect you," he told the pile of stinking gore and coagulating blood that had once been his maker. "What do the gods care for those such as us? We are creatures of death, no longer seen in their eyes because we are not among the living. They are deaf to us."

Godric carefully set the statue down on the floor and kicked it, sending it skidding in the trail of his maker's blood. "To all the hells with the gods. To all the hells with you. I am here, and you are nowhere. I am Death, and you are dead. I am your progeny, and you were my maker, and I won. There is survival, and there is death, and there were always be another me and another you."

Exhilarated, alive and yet not alive, the transformation occurred. No, it was not the turning. He had already turned. This was a different transformation, a voluntary transition from man to beast; yet better than both man and beast, and Godric accepted it fully. His fangs appeared with a click, flashing bone-white in the moonlight, and his impulses immediately set in, the thirst for blood almost always top priority, being the young vampire that he was.

Nobody heard the sound of air cutting as the young slave boy once known as Godric suddenly disappeared, the gust of dust that was kicked up with his departure outside the entrance of the house of the newly deceased Gaius Flavius Corvinus. The living were sleeping, treacherous Rome was alive with the dead, and Death was hungry.

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**Notes****:**

_Anathema_ – a person or thing accursed or consigned to damnation or destruction.

_Lararium_ – the small shrine in Roman houses dedicated to the household gods.

_Atrium _– the main room of a Roman house. It contains the _compluvium _and the _impluvium._

_Compluvium _– the aperture in the ceiling of the main room that lets in the sunlight and rain.

_Impluvium _– the basin in the center of the main room that collects the rain water the _compluvium _lets in.

_Vestibule _– entrance to a Roman house.

_Patrician _– Roman nobility.

_The Lare _– the household gods. They were believed to protect, observe, and influence Roman families.

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**A/N: **The timeline I chose for this prologue was the year of Julius Caesar's death, which makes Godric in his very early twenties', give or take, as the wiki indicates that he was captured in Caesar's conquest of Gaul (58 – 52 B.C.). I figured that Godric would kill his maker very early on in his life as a vampire to escape his cruelty and abuse. Just thought I should clarify that in case anybody asks. I hope that you readers found this chapter enjoyable, and hope that you stick around for the next one. Again, please don't be afraid to point out any inaccuracies/mistakes I made. :)


	2. Chapter 1: Nefarious

**Title: **Breathe Your Last

**Author: **_TheLadyLepida_

**Rating: **_M _for _Mature_. Heed the warnings, please.

**Full Summary: **Latharna, a Celtic woman living in eleventh-century Scotland, is a social outcast, reviled as a witch. Fully prepared to live out her life alone, Latharna is content with tending to her herb garden and nurturing her budding talent in magic until a dangerous creature begins to stalk her during the night. [Godric/OFC] [Pre-series.]

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**Chapter:** 1/10 – This is just a rough estimate for now, and seeing as I can't really predict how long each chapter will be, I don't know how long the story is going to be either. It's very likely it'll wind up being longer than ten chapters but right now I can't really say.

**A/N:** Okay, I lied. I said I was going to publish another Godric story with the intention of ping-ponging back and forth between both stories with updates, but I decided against it as I'm now completely focused on this one right now. Anyways, I thought it would be interesting to note that this story takes place during the reign of Macbeth. Yes, Macbeth and his wife were actual people who reigned as the monarchs of Scotland for seventeen years. Ironically, when you think about Shakespeare's play, their reign was noted as a time of prosperity for Scotland. Speaking of which, I'm doing research on Celtic Scotland and its culture as I go along, so this is a learning experience for me as well, so please don't hesitate to point out any mistakes I make in this area. I would also love to be made aware of references that could help in my writing, so if you readers are aware of any information that could help I would be extremely grateful if you mentioned it in a review or a PM.

Also, much thanks to those who reviewed! It really means a lot to me that you took the time to comment on my story. :) I also thank those who favorited/alerted my story. I'm extremely happy that there are people interested in it. :)

**Warning(s) for this chapter: **Violence and graphic imagery throughout, and a heavily erotic scene near the end.

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**Disclaimer****: **_True Blood_/The Sookie Stackhouse series belong to HBO and Charlaine Harris.

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**Breathe Your Last**

-TheLadyLepida-

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Chapter One:

-_**Nefarious**_-

* * *

_"So fair and foul a day I had not seen."_

- **William Shakespeare, **Macbeth

_"The night is dark and full of terrors."_

- **George R.R. Martin, **A Clash of Kings

* * *

SCOTLAND:

-1047 A.D.-

**THERE **was an execution due to take place in the village. The announcement had been made at the market cross, a rickety platform set in the center of the market place, earlier in the morning to an eager crowd, made even more delighted by the announcer's words that the execution "was an unusual case and would not be carried out at the usual time." The crowd went wild. Everybody knew what _that_ meant. Throughout the day, as she traded, or attempted to trade, her wares for the items and foodstuffs she could not grow or make herself, Latharna could hear the men building the gallows. She could smell the fresh-cut wood from her stall, her nostrils twitching from its dusty scent. She could feel the dread settling in her stomach. The village people reveled in death and blood, seeing executions as a form of entertainment. The criminals didn't even have the choice to die privately, or with dignity.

But Latharna knew it was no mere criminal they were going to hang. It wasn't even going to be a normal hanging. The gallows being built were not meant for a human, but a night-demon, so the rumors said. How the village men had managed to _capture _a night-demon was beyond Latharna's comprehension, but she did find it curious all the same. Night-demons were said to possess strength, speed, and keen senses far beyond that of humans. They drank on the blood of the living and tormented and murdered innocents for their own amusement. The only ways known to kill them were to either stake them in the heart or expose them to the sun.

_The people will not rid themselves of _this _night-demon so quickly, _Latharna thought. _They will bring him out at night and torture him mercilessly before they end him. _

"Are you addled in the head, girl? Did you not hear the offer I have just made?"

Latharna started at the sharp, irritated voice and looked up to catch an corpulent, middle-aged housewife looming over her, eying her with distaste. The woman was clutching a wooden cage that contained two, frightfully thin chickens and was now looking over the wool and baskets Latharna had labored over with a practiced eye, searching for any faults in the goods. Latharna swept her gaze over the chickens the housewife bore. Surely the woman did not mean to get anything by bartering those sad, sickly creatures? She must have deliberately picked out the poorest of her flock to specially trade with her. She was not the first villager to have done this.

"These two chickens for three good lengths of wool," the woman said briskly, pointing to her choices.

"I can't accept those," Latharna told her, inwardly sighing when the woman's round, doughy face colored with anger.

"Why ever not?" the woman asked indignantly.

"They are sickly, and look as if they are about to drop dead at any moment." _I will _not _be cheated by these people, _Latharna swore to herself.

"I don't believe _you _are in the position to be picky," the housewife retorted. "If _I _were you, I'd take what I'd get and be grateful for it."

_Be grateful for being cheated out of the fruits of _my _labor __and be content to survive on the scraps and bones you and the rest of the village deign to toss my way? I don't think so._

"I cannot accept them," Latharna repeated slowly. "They will die within the week, at the latest, if not during the next two days. Everybody else here will say the same if you barter with them."

Seeing that she wasn't getting her way, the woman's lips curled, and her green eyes flashed with hate. "You're as greedy as your strumpet mother. Cheating people, poisoning them under the guise of her so-called 'healing,' calling down curses upon us. What's to say you're not already doing the same, unnatural creature that you are-"

In a sudden burst of temper, Latharna snatched away the length of red wool the housewife had been fingering longingly and managed to force out, despite the rage overflowing inside her, "Perhaps you should search for what you need else where."

"I shall, and I shall _never _trade with the likes of you ever again," the woman retorted. Latharna was satisfied by the last, lingering glance the woman cast over her wares before she stormed off in a self-righteous huff. None of the villagers would ever admit it, but Latharna's work was envied by young maid and old crone alike. Hardly any of them could do finer.

Her satisfaction quickly dissolved when she took notice of the people who had eavesdropped on the argument, looking at her with mixed expressions of repulsion, hatred, and fear. They had always hated her, feared her. It grew worse after her mother had passed two years ago. Either way, after the scene the housewife had made, it was not likely she was going to receive any more customers today. With a sigh, Latharna began to pack up her wares and gather her meager purchases.

As Latharna made her way out of the market place, those near her backed away, shooting her dirty looks or making the sign to ward off evil. There wasn't anything in Latharna's appearance that portrayed her as the witch the villagers suspected her to be. By all accounts, she was a comely woman, with glossy hair, black as a raven's wing, eyes the color of thunderclouds, and a petite, lithe frame. Her facial features were sharp, highlighted by high, prominent cheekbones, and full, pouty lips. Unlike many of the villagers, her teeth were white and straight, her eyelashes long and thick. Her hair was twisted into braids: a thick plait swung about her waist, with two thinner strands framing either side of her face, draped over her ears, all wound with ribbon. Although she was not a voluptuous woman, the faded blue tunic molded artfully to the flare of her hips and the shape of her breasts, inviting leers and lewd comments. Latharna could pass easily as one of the village maids, but the villagers did not see it this way.

Her mother had been strange, living out the three miles away from the village, on the edge of the woods, with only her daughter and no man to look after them. Latharna was even stranger, having chosen to stay out there even after her mother's death instead of moving to the village with the hopes of marrying one of the young boys to raise her status in the eyes of the villagers. Not that their mothers would have allowed it. Latharna lived in a world where the parent's reputation ultimately passed onto the child like some sort of two-bladed inheritance. Her mother's reputation had not been good at all, especially having been an healer and midwife, and had not improved over the years Latharna got older and frequented the village with her mother.

Aware of the stares and whispers, Latharna ignored them all. She was quite accustomed to it and had long ceased caring about the thoughts and opinions gossipy women and superstitious men. Lugging her things with the strength that comes with years of hauling merchandise back and forth, Latharna easily made her way down the trail that led out of the village, the trail gradually growing rougher with sharp zig-zagging twists and turns as it led up a steep hill. When she came to the crest of the hill, it was high enough that she was able to look down upon the village, a small cluster of houses and shops huddling together haplessly against the wide span of rugged wilderness.

Latharna squinted, and was able to make out the gallows against the bright orange sun that signified the day's ending. The dread came back, and she couldn't help but feel pity for the night-demon whose was going to end there, his last sights the faces of the jeering villagers. After all, someday, if the villagers struck up enough hatred, enough anger, then _she_ would be the one in that very spot, burnt as the witch they made her out to be.

* * *

The sun was still moving in its slow descent from the sky, but Godric was already awake and eager to dig his way out of the ground. He had slept fitfully, his knowledge of his child's capture plaguing him incessantly. _His son... _The thought of Eric in the hands of those insipid, idiotic villagers made all of his paternal instincts roar in rage. He may not have sired Eric, but he had made him, raised him in the way of Death, and thus, Eric was his child. The villagers would pay _dearly _for their foolishness.

As soon as he had sensed the ending of day and the beginning of night, Godric began tearing at the dirt that encased him, clawing and digging until he reached the surface, and burst out of the hole he had slept in. He inhaled the array of scents that assaulted his nose, sharper and clearer to his senses than that of any human's. The ancient forest he had slept in was dark and intimidating, wild with no clear trail or path that led in or out of it. Godric had ventured deep into the heart of the forest, knowing that the superstitious villagers would not follow him, their imaginings of terrifying creatures native to the woods making them hesitant. However, seeing as night had fallen, they were sure to be lurking on the edge of the forest, lying in wait, hoping to capture him as they did Eric.

Godric raised his head and sniffed. Indeed, there was the familiar rank smell of men who rarely bathed. Godric smirked. _He_ was going to bathe in their blood. He set off at his heightened speed, weaving through the dark wood, ignoring the shining eyes of the unseen animals that watched him from the shadows, the smells of the humans growing stronger as drew closer. He could hear their hearts beating fast and irregularly in fear, imagined the rush of blood in their veins, and released a throaty growl, hunger beginning to gnaw at him. It was early evening, so Godric had enough time to play around and feed before he went to release Eric._  
_

Reaching the end of the forest, Godric flung himself out onto the barren, rocky heath, startling the men. He avoided a net flung at him and a crudely sharpened stake thrust at his heart before disemboweling one of them by shoving his hand in a vulnerable stomach, pulling out a rope of intestines and letting them slowly uncoil to the ground with a plop, steam rising up from the worm-like pile. Godric ducked back into the trees to frighten them, to stalk them like a predator would its prey. He watched them looking about wildly, huddling together in a circle, back to back. With complete silence, Godric used his heightened speed to sneak up behind another man and snapped his neck with a loud crack. The remaining four men screamed and, in a display of sheer stupidity, charged him with their weapons, which were merely farming implements. Godric avoided them all easily, ripping a threshing scythe out of one man's hand and burying it deep in his back. Another man had managed to sneak behind him and attempted to rake his pitchfork down his back; Godric shoved it so deep in his belly that the sharp points peeked out from his back. The two remaining men made to flee. Godric appeared so suddenly in front of them that the younger boy collided hard into the back of the older man, who was most likely his father as they shared the same unruly yellow hair, and fell back on his bottom. Godric's dark eyes swept over him before locking back on the elder man's face.

"Your son smells delicious," Godric rasped maliciously, his face lighting up with cruel delight. "I will enjoy feeding on him."

"Filthy demon," the old man spat, his voice wavering slightly when he noticed Godric releasing his fangs with an audible click. "Spawn of Satan! You may kill us, but we have one of your own ready to stake. And soon enough, the others will come for you."

Godric's expression darkened immensely at the mention of Eric, and he released a guttural, savage snarl as he lunged at the man and plunged his blood-stained hands into his chest cavity, systematically removing his organs one by one, tossing them aside with disgusting wet sounds as they hit the ground. When Godric had spent most of his anger, he turned his eyes on the man's son, who had sat frozen, horrified, as he watched his father being painfully dissected right in front of him. He started when he saw Godric take a step towards him and began to frantically push himself backwards on the dirt, whimpering and panting.

"Don't bother, boy," Godric commented as he appeared behind him, forcing him to his feet in order to sniff his neck and inhale the scent, "There's no way to escape me. I am Death."

The boy didn't even have the chance to scream as Godric's fangs plunged into his throat.

* * *

It was nighttime. Despite having been crammed into a hastily-made, silver-lined coffin that was far too small to accommodate his long limbs properly, sealed tight into darkness, Eric knew. It was night, he had awakened, and Godric was going to come for him. For what he was sure the thousandth time ever since he was captured, Eric inwardly cursed himself for letting his guard down when he had fed on that young child. Of course one of the villagers was going to notice that his daughter had gone missing. And of course the first obvious place the father was going to search was his own farmland. He had been foolish to let his hunger rule him. He was no newborn.

Eric shifted uncomfortably, with a futile attempt to adjust his legs and arms, but he hissed in pain when he came into contact with the silver and stilled immediately to wait for the pain to subside. He could sense that Godric was starting to awaken, his rage starting to bubble once more. Eric often likened his maker's rage to the ocean, deep and endless; controlled, but once let loose, it destroyed everything in its path. Eric, on the other hand, had yet to fully control his own emotions and impulses. At the young age of one-hundred thirty-seven, Eric was still a child, hardly past infancy. Thus, he was quick to anger, quick to hunger, and quick to kill.

_Godric will never let me forget this when this over, _Eric thought to himself. _He will berate me as one does a child. And a child I am not! __  
_

Wallowing in his indignation, Eric was suddenly startled from his thoughts when he heard the cell door of the room his coffin had been left in opening, quickly rousing his senses and he stiffened, his muscles coiling with instinct, ready to attack as soon as the damned villagers lifted the lid off the coffin. He could hear their steps growing closer, their voices and heartbeats getting louder, and his fangs were immediately out with a click, a growl rumbling low in his throat. He flexed his fingers, eager to wrap them around throats. He waited, the footsteps stopped right by his coffin and yet they didn't open it. Eric was thoroughly startled when he felt the coffin being lifted, rocking and swaying dangerously as the men struggled to balance it properly between them.

He could hear their grunts and pants as they hauled him away, and could smell the sweat they shed from their efforts. Their blood was tantalizing as well, as the blood of the last human he had fed on had not completely sustained him. Soon, there was the sound of another door creaking open and a gush of wind, carrying along the multiple scents of humans and the various smells of nature, faint, subtle smells that only he could pick up. Fresh and pure as water, even within the coffin Eric could note the difference. It was a relief from the stifling, dank cell they had kept him in. The coffin tilted back suddenly, and Eric heard the thumping of feet on wooden stairs. The coffin was dropped with a loud thump, the fall reverberating uncomfortably inside it, and Eric hissed as his skin made contact with the silver lining.

He heard the men gather around the coffin and wrench at the lid. Immediately, Eric pushed at the lid and sent it flying, he heard the humans screaming as it landed, his first sight in over a day the beautiful night sky, indigo-blue, decorated with a scattering of bright, pulsing stars. Eric launched himself out of the coffin, snarling, but was immediately surrounded by a dozen of the village men, all bearing stakes. They quickly surrounded him a tight circle, stakes aimed alarmingly close. Eric cast his gaze over them, but the men cleverly avoided his eyes, lowering their eyes, but their attention never wavering. Letting his eyes wander, Eric saw that he had been carried onto the scaffold of a gallows, built at the outskirts of the village, surrounded by most of its population. Many stared, wide-eyed, whispering among themselves while others had turned their eyes away like his jailers.

The crowd suddenly parted as one man started to push his way through, stopping directly in front of the platform. A couple of the men surrounding Eric shifted slightly so the villager could have a better view. Eric saw the fury burning in the man's eyes, and he realized that he was the father of the young girl he had drained. Eric smirked at him, inwardly pleased when he saw the man's fury grow.

He broke the silence by commenting, "She tasted delicious, your daughter. It's almost a pity, you know. She would've made a beautiful woman." He emphasized this by licking his lips and flashing his fangs. The crowd gasped together and shrunk back in terror, but the father held his ground. He stepped up the platform and stood right before Eric, tilted his head up at him.

"You will not live to see another night." He spoke clearly and calmly, not tripping over a word. "You will know the fear my daughter felt. You will know the pain your victims knew. And it will be painful and mercilessness. May God have forgiveness on what is left of your soul."

He spoke like a man, nothing like the other worthless lumps of flesh and bone that cowered before Eric. He spoke like a Viking, facing the uncertain, braving the tumultuous and unpredictable sea, standing before Death. This farmer had the makings of a warrior lurking beneath the withered and aged flesh of his face.

Taken quite aback by the man's show of strength before him, Eric barely heard his next words, directed at several of the men laying out an array of axes, knives, scythes and other makeshift weapons before the crowd.

"No, we do not need those. His wounds would only heal." He cut his gaze back to the Viking. "I want him to suffer in a different way. A way that only his kind would know.

"I want him to meet the sun."

He made a gesturing motion, and Eric was seized from behind by a pair of large, rough hands, and drug directly under the beam that a long length of rope hung from. The noose. The loop was forced over his head and then tightened around his neck. At that very instant, Eric felt his maker's presence weaving through the crowd silently and stealthily, invisible to the human eye.

Eric smiled and waited for the bloodbath to begin.

* * *

On the edge of the woods, a few miles east of the spot where Godric had slain the seven village men, sat a roundhouse centered between the large space of two wych elm trees. Inside, Latharna sat by the hearth, idly stoking the peat fire and thinking about the night-demon the villagers were going to kill. Had they done it already? Or were they in the middle of torturing him?

_I really shouldn't be feeling pity for him, I suppose, _she thought to herself, gazing into the flickering flames. _He'd most likely kill me in an instant. But... He was human once. He had his own life before, if what the villagers say is true. _

_He is a creature of the night... like me. _

Latharna stared at the crackling fire, feeling an immense sense of loneliness overwhelm her. The villagers feared her and despised, and rightfully so. She engaged in the dark arts of magic, as her mother had done before her, and her mother before her. It was a part of who she was. It didn't matter that she never used her magic with malicious intent (however tempting it was when it came to the village people), using them for little else than casting charms and protection wards to keep her safe from the ill will of the more violent village men and the fouler creatures that haunted the night. A woman being different and possessing power beyond man's comprehension simultaneously frightened and infuriated those of the male sex. They sought to crush it, stamp it out anyway they could.

_They can hang me, they can burn me at the stake, but they will never take the magic away from me. It is mine. Mine, mine, mine. _

Latharna closed her eyes and stilled her body, reaching deep inside herself to touch the magic that lay within her. She had to feel it, know that it was there. She felt it stir, light and fluid, curling outwards from her core and spreading, rushing into her blood, slipping into her heart, into her fingers, into her soul. Tentatively, Latharna reached out, past the protective barriers that coated the roundhouse and into the open night. She concentrated her senses and turned an Eye of Sight out into the woods, while she opened another in the direction of the village.

The woods were peaceful, alive with the noises and sounds of its nocturnal occupants. Latharna could smell and hear the most subtle scents of nature, peaceful and yet powerful at the same time. She marveled at its strength, its reign over all its creatures. As much as man attempted to claim their authority over nature, it was futile. Nature yielded to no one, not even man, humans being another aspect, another branch of nature.

Latharna frowned. Something was wrong. She focused her second Eye, attempting to zero in on the view of the village. To her immense frustration, she could not get any closer than from the top of the hill from where she had stood a few mere hours earlier, just like she couldn't penetrate further the darkness of the forest. Because her mother had died before she was done passing on her knowledge to her daughter, Latharna's magic was limited and thus, her connection to nature and earth was limited. She wasn't reduced to the most basic of spells and charms, but neither was she capable of using the most advanced and complicated spells that her mother had cast with ease.

While she got the sense that something strange was occurring at the village, because she could not focus any more on it, Latharna could not See the specific events that were happening. Despite that, she had the feeling that whatever was going down at the village was dangerous, and she stepped outside to expand her protective spells and wards as far as they could go, which wasn't very far. The spells only expanded a little ways up the path that led straight from her roundhouse to the village.

_If that vampire got away and escapes in this direction, he'll definitely notice the magic I cast here, if my blood wasn't the first thing he'd notice. This night couldn't get any worse. _

Latharna gazed up at the sky, with its dark mantle, stars pinned upon it like brooches. A bright sliver of the waning moon peeked out shyly from behind scraps of thin cloud. The air was cool, a brief, small gust of wind rustling the leaves, playfully tugging at the hem of her tunic-dress. Such beauty. Having been surrounded by it day and night for twenty years, Latharna never tired of it; only of the constant loneliness she felt standing beneath the sky with no one at her side. No man at her side, wrapping her in his arms.

Latharna shook her head vehemently. If all men were like those in the village, leering and sneering, eyes darkened by their fear and hatred of her, then she definitely did not need a man. She could get along just fine without one. She repeated this to herself in a whisper when she retired to her pallet, staring up at the smoke-stained ceiling until she felt her eyes close. However, sleep did not last long, and Latharna felt a series of emotions wash over her: anger, sadness, yearning, and frustration. She felt confined by the walls of the roundhouse, felt closed in.

Kicking off her blankets, Latharna stood and found herself undoing her plait and tugging at the laces of her rough sleeping gown, letting her slightly-wavy hair fall down her back and her sleeping gown pool at her feet, leaving her nude. There was a certain daring about it. Latharna had never before felt the urge to undress unless it was necessary: to bathe in the loch or ready herself for bed. She had no mirror in which to gaze upon her reflection, and it was too dark in the roundhouse, the fire burnt down to dull embers, to study anything within her perception, so before she could fully comprehend what she was doing, Latharna nudged open the door and stepped outside.

* * *

"That is more than enough, Eric. Cease now."

Godric watched indifferently as Eric withdrew his fangs from the throat of one of the village maids with a guttural groan of satisfaction, retracting his fangs with a click. Callously, he tossed the girl's body aside, smearing the blood from his lips and chin on the sleeve of his tunic.

A low moan caught Godric's attention, and his eyes followed the sound. At his feet, lay one of the villagers he had feed from, pawing weakly at his ankle. Godric eyed him coldly for a moment before he swiftly crushed the man's skull under his foot, ending the pitiful moaning. It irked him.

"We must leave," he said, when he noticed Eric's eyes taking in the bodies, lingering on the ruined corpse whose daughter he had killed.

The debacle they had caused at the gallows was enough for the villagers to potentially bring their presence to their king's attention in the hopes of hunting them out. The village, located in the land of Buchan, far up in the Highlands, laid fairly close to Moray, where Mac Bethad mac Findlaich had ruled as thane and Mormaer of both Moray and Ross before he took the crown seven years ago. As king, he still ruled from there, from Inverness. It was likely that the villagers would be too frightened to reveal Godric's and Eric's presence, and even if they found the courage to do so, it was likely the king would cast them away, believing their fears to be mere superstition. But Godric was not willing to take the chance, not with the small likelihood of the king sending men to investigate. Wiping the whole village was not an option, and they had already brought enough attention on themselves by killing and feeding on several people that had either initiated or attended the thwarted "execution." The rest of the people had fled back to the village to lock themselves in their houses, while the few fools that attempted to kill Eric and Godric met a painful, bloody end.

"Eric, we are leaving. Now," Godric added sharply, annoyed at his child's petulant tendency to ignore him. Godric often found himself repeating his commands to Eric, and he _hated _having to repeat himself.

_He is young, a babe still. Another century or two should wear away the annoyances that comes with youth. Or so I have been told, _Godric thought, inwardly sighing. Eric's antics never failed to wear him out, and Godric was not easy to wear down.

The two vampires quickly departed, weaving fast through the empty streets of the village and up the steep path that led back towards the wood. After meeting the crest of the hill, the path was smoother and even, and the two vampires could see the dark blots of the woods outlined on the horizon in the moon's faint light. As they drew closer and closer, a strange scent in the cool air made itself known, growing stronger as they neared. It smelt of earth and sunlight. Magic. Godric glanced at his child, to see if he had also caught the smell. The Viking looked perplexed, having noticed, but not being able to place the smell.

_He probably does not realize that it is magic, _Godric mused. _The boy has never encountered a witch. _

"Be cautious," Godric said, "There may be a witch lurking about the woods. We must avoid it."

"Why?" Eric's expression was curious.

"Because witches can perform necromancy, and a few of the stronger ones have the potential power to control us."

Eric laughed. "What could a witch do to us? They are still mortal, and we have the strength to overcome them."

"This is no laughing matter," Godric admonished sharply, "We are creatures of the night, but so are they. They draw their strength from the earth. Gods know what they could make us do if we were to be caught in their thrall."

Eric was silent, an unusual state for him, taken aback by his maker's sharp tone.

The two were now very close to the woods, and magic thickened in the air, layers gathered upon each other, centered together a little ways up the path maker and child had followed. Narrowly his eyes, Godric searched the outskirts of the woods with his keen gaze, intending to locate the source of the magic. He caught sight of a small roundhouse lying between two trees, almost completely hidden by the shadows of the forest. Eric's voice indicated that he had located the roundhouse as well.

"So that is where the witch lives. Outcast, alone, on the outskirts of the woods."

"Yes. And we shall not rouse her attention. Avoid the magic she has cast, as it only stretches a certain length away from her hut, and it will hinder our way into the forest. I sense that she is not a very adept spell-caster."

"How can you tell?"

"Because I've had quite a few run-ins with witches, and learned several important things in the process. Now let us depart. You are still young, and cannot identify the precise location where the magic ends, so you'd do well to follow me. We shall cut a wide swathe here into the forest to avoid the witch and sleep one more day here before we leave this land."

They made to do just that, veer off the path away from the magic and slip into the darkness of the forest until the sound of a door opening caught their attention and the witch stepped outside her hut, naked.

* * *

Latharna immediately felt the difference when she stepped outside as naked as the day she was born. She knew she should have been embarrassed, but strangely she wasn't. There wasn't anyone around, after all, and she could still feel her Shield standing firm in its place, and with no signs of intrusions. Thus, Latharna felt more bold than she ever had before, even more than when she was at the village, strolling casually among hostile faces. Though the air was not particularly chill, she almost immediately felt her nipples stiffening until they pointed boldly outwards, as if awaiting a man's touch. The thought stirred up a strange warmth inside her that spread downward to her loins. She shuddered. She had never felt such yearning before, and the strength it had over her shocked her.

As Latharna stepped out of the doorway and into the open, she became increasingly aware of the air on her skin and the grass beneath her feet. This feeling was different than she usually felt when collecting herbs or tuning in to her connection to the earth. Far, far different. This feeling was entirely human. It was strange how foreign it felt to be human rather than the witch she was supposed to be.

Latharna found her hands drifting over her body, over her breasts, stomach, hips and thighs. She admired them all: soft and smooth flesh, full and supple. She remembered how she used to avoid touching that Place Down There, shielded by a soft down of curling hair, when she had started to bleed in her fourteenth winter, believing that such a part could only deliver the nuisances of the monthlies and the agonizing pain of childbirth.

Not so now, when she let her hands drift down towards that forbidden place, surprised to find the lips slick and wet, and strangely tender and swollen beneath her touch. There was said to be a secret bud hidden among the upper length of the female parts that when caressed, released such a feeling of pleasure that was compared to a glimpse of heaven. Or so the village women said, when they let their foul thoughts drift out through their mouths when they believed they would go completely unheard except by those of their own party.

Latharna searched for that spot, teasing and stroking slowly until she found herself doubling over with a gasp, crippled by a shock of pleasure that rippled through her like lightning. She soon found herself on her knees on the dry grass as waves of sweet numbness washed over her, spiraling upward, higher and higher to dizzying heights until Latharna felt like she was falling, falling. There was no sudden, abrupt ending to it; Latharna only knew it was over when she regained her senses and normal sensation back in all her limbs rather than just having it all gather and build up in that one place Down Below. Indeed, she was once again startled back into the world around her by the loud, drawn-out hoot of an owl; glancing up, she caught sight of the bird flying high overhead, its outline silhouetted against the sky and stars, swiftly disappearing into the dark forest before her.

Latharna felt sudden exhaustion take over her, and she stretched her body flat upon the ground, on her back, her unbound hair rippling outwards behind her. Her body slick with sweat, her limbs strangely heavy with an exertion that had not been used, Latharna was left feeling drowsy, limp and languid, weakened by a sensation she had never known. She smiled. Of all the few things that the village women had ever been right about, it was definitely this, this new pleasure. A new kind of magic.

Unbeknownst to her, as Latharna gazed upon the sky, idly contemplating the delights found in her body, her heart was still beating fast, the sound only heard by the two vampires watching from the darkness of the forest, the rhythmic _ba-dump ba-dump_ a haunting remainder of the difference between the dead and the living, prey and predator.

* * *

He had watched the young witch writhe and shudder with the new discovery of the pleasures that could be found within the body, and Godric had found himself simultaneously amused and aroused. He was surprised by Eric's unusual self-control, the Viking only made hesitant due to his wariness of witches, set firmly in place by his upbringing's superstitions. But after the woman had found her pleasure, Godric only heard the loud beating of her heart, drowning out every other sound of the forest.

Feeling a strange ache inside him, Godric found his hand drifting over the place where his own heart lay, encased within the flesh where it had lain silent for over a thousand years.

* * *

**Notes:**

1.. Market cross (_mercat cross_) - Found in Scottish cities and towns (not in villages, as I've portrayed here), the market cross was a structure that ranged from the simplistic to the elaborate used to mark a market square, and was often where announcements, proclamations, and executions where announced to the public.

2.. "Eye of Sight" - This is a completely **fictional** act of magic that allows Latharna to see what is occurring in the outside world in certain places without requiring her to actually travel. This is something I completely made up on my own. (And no, I will not make up anymore fictional magic techniques. I seek to remain as accurate as possible. This was just for the sake of the scene.)

3.. Location - This story takes place in the Highlands (where the Scottish Celts mostly dwelled) in Buchan, a region fairly close to Moray where King Macbeth reigned from. I found an awesome map of eleventh-century Scotland in the historical novel _Lady Macbeth_ by Susan Fraser King, which lent heavy inspiration for the basis of my story and my character Latharna. _  
_

4.. Shielding - A technique for creating a magical force-field around a person or place that keeps out unwanted or negative energy (this being Godric and Eric, lol). Some people are able to do it unconsciously, others (like Latharna) have to learn how by visualizing/performing it. This is actual basic magical protection, I did not make this up. Also, as I am still doing research on magic and not quite familiar with it yet, I might be wrong with how this technique works. I have the link to the page that explains this much better than I, so if anybody is curious, send me a PM and I'll give you the link.

* * *

**A/N:** Here I am again, uploading at an ungodly hour in the morning. I'm really sorry that I did not update earlier like I promised. The naughty scene with Latharna was extremely challenging for me, but I (by some sort of miracle) managed to pull through. I cannot even begin to say how embarressed I was when I actually typed out the word "nipples" for the first time. It's a wonder how I'm even going to be able write future sex scenes. xDD I am no prude by any stretch of the imagination, but it's pretty surreal when you find yourself _actually _writing a sensual scene and not just reading it. Anyways, I managed to cram a lot of stuff in this chapter (I'm still wondering if that's bad or not), including one young Eric Northman. xDD I obviously can't leave him out, seeing as he's Godric's child and all. And in case anybody's wondering, this story is _not _going to be a Godric/OFC/Eric pairing. Nope, just Godric/OFC. Why? Because I honestly don't want to write more Eric than I have to, and I have a feeling he's going to be an incredibly difficult character for me to work with later on. Speaking of characters... As you may have noticed, Godric is not as wild and feral as he is portrayed in the Season 2 flashback. It is my belief that as he grew older, he began to retain some sort of self-control while remaining cold, cruel, and ruthless.

Okay... I think I'm done rambling for now. Anyways, I'm off to read some _Living Dead in Dallas _before I go to sleep. Meanwhile, be sure to check my profile for frequent status reports where I comment/complain on how far I'm progressing on current chapters! I'm not sure how long the next chapter is going to take, seeing as I still have yet to start it and the fact that I'm going to be leaving for vacation (I'll be taking my laptop) in four days and it obviously won't be updated before then, so I kindly ask for your patience. Much, much thanks for all of those who took the time to read this chapter and I sincerely hope that you all enjoyed it. :)

**Edit:** Ending has been corrected because it was two in the morning and I completely forgot Godric's age.


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